The man in the corner catches hold of a sandwich calling it 'the real':

his bites, broken and bound, breathe signs on the street, on the pavement.

on the moon caught in the sky.

But. she. more than a name, more than a celebrated symbol, tots lip signs and symbols and silences, rolling them into a 'no', or into an ‘yes': see. the land is breathing blood see. the land is breathing fire.

Does it mean that there ts always a wound on the back of the night, tn the voice of the poem? The flower then does not die in the move that you make, here and now.

Here are moments that chase death and darkness out of this orbit, while the syllable in your breath sparkles, lengthens across time now tossed in the noises they make tn the messages one by one.

See. your children, your sons and daughters keep faring forward.

as you. mother, keep coming back and coming back to the real: love and life and struggle keep animating a poem here yet to be written.